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We come back from our holiday to a completely different household: the eldest child, the middle one and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been in charge for more than a fortnight. The refrigerator contents looks unfamiliar, sourced from unfamiliar shops. The dining table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at hip level. Under the counter, the dog and the cat are fighting.

“They fight?” I say.

“Yeah, this is normal now,” the middle child replies.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The canine flicks the cat away and chases it in circles round the table, dodging power cords.

“Common perhaps, but not natural,” I say.

The cat rolls over on its spine, assuming a passive stance to lure the canine closer. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The dog backs away, with the cat dragged behind, clinging below.

“I liked it better when they were afraid of each other,” I state.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “It's not always clear.”

My spouse enters.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she says.

“They said maybe wait until it rains,” I say, “to confirm the roof repair.”

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she says.

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I say. Scaffolding is expensive, until removal is needed, then they’re content to keep it with you for ever for free.

“Can you call them again?” my spouse asks.

“I’ll do it, right after …” I say.

The only time the canine and feline cease fighting is in the hour before feeding time, when they team up to bring feeding forward an hour.

“Quit battling!” my spouse shouts. The dog and the cat stop, turn, stare at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems to be edging beyond playful, but the cat has ample opportunity to escape through the flap and it keeps coming back for more. To get away from the noise I retreat to my garden office, which is icy, left without heat for a fortnight. Eventually I’m driven back to the kitchen, among the monitors and cables and my sons and the cat and the dog.

The only time the pets are at peace is in the hour before feeding time, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The feline approaches the cabinet, sits, and gazes at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I say. “Right now it’s five.” The feline starts pawing the cabinet with its front paws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I point out. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“One hour,” I declare.

“You know you’re just gonna give in,” the eldest says.

“No I’m not,” I say.

“Miaow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and turns it over. The feline dashes, stops, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The pets hesitate briefly to look at me, before resuming.

The next morning I get up before dawn to be in the calm kitchen before anyone else wakes. Both pets are asleep. For a few minutes the only sound in the house is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water at the counter.

“You rose early,” she says.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I must work now, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Yes it will,” I say. “Seeing others, saying things.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, revealing an overcast morning. Foliage falls from the big cherry tree in bunches. I see the tortoise in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.